


Filling The Blanks

by prettyvk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, M/M, Pining, Season/Series 03, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-08 13:42:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyvk/pseuds/prettyvk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short scenes with a johnlock slant meant to work within canon</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Burnt Leather

**Author's Note:**

> Set during The Empty Hearse after the bonfire scene.

Burnt leather has a distinctive smell, thick and acrid, a smell that stays with Sherlock long after they’ve left the bonfire behind, long after he climbed into a cab to get home – after he watched John climb into a different one with Mary.

Back alone in Baker Street, Sherlock hangs his coat, absently noting that the food he dropped is gone. Mrs. Hudson makes for a very poor not-housekeeper. He shrugs out of his jacket on the way to the bathroom and washes his hands, then his face, but still the smell lingers and he finds himself going back to the entrance and digging into his pockets for his gloves. He pulls them out and goes to sit in his chair, examining first one glove, then the other.

Italian leather. Cashmere lining. Reinforced stitching. They’re good gloves. Expensive ones. For the things he wears near constantly, things that touch his skin, Sherlock doesn’t mind splurging.

His fingers shake as he touches the burnt spots, the leather cracked from the heat. His mind insists on summoning the memory of a burnt body he saw once as part of a case. It’s more than a memory, though; it’s a surreal image, with John’s face transposed over the victim’s.

If they’d arrived two minutes later… if they hadn’t figured out the code so fast… if Mary hadn’t thought of coming to him… if he’d gone to dinner with Molly instead of coming home… if.

John could have died, tonight. Burned alive.

 _I’ll burn the heart out of you_ , echoes in Sherlock’s mind, but Moriarty is gone, his web dismantled, Sherlock made sure of it – so who? Why? And more importantly maybe, will it happen again? How can Sherlock stop it from happening again?

When he finally goes to bed, he takes the gloves with him, sets them on the night table, within easy reach, just in case he needs to save John again in his sleep. Maybe in his dreams – in his nightmares – John will finally forgive him.


	2. A Last Bit of Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set at the end of His Last Vow.

_Tell him._

Every voice in Sherlock’s mind agrees – except for Mycroft, but then, he likes to be contrary.

_Tell him._

What a strange moment. The last time they said goodbye, Sherlock asked John to keep his eyes on him. Today, John can’t seem to look straight at him, he keeps looking around them as though seeking a way out. A way out for whom? Himself, or Sherlock? Can he guess what is likely to happen within six months?

John can’t look at him, but Sherlock can’t look away.

_Tell him._

Nevermind their audience. Nevermind that John is married, that he still loves her even despite everything, maybe enough so for their marriage to endure. Nevermind that there won’t even be time for him to wrap his mind around the idea or formulate a response beyond surprise and shock. Yes, of course he’ll be surprised. He never did learn to observe.

_Tell him._

Yes. Tell him.

“John, there’s something… I should say. I meant to say, always, and I never have. Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again I might as well say it now.”

Sherlock steels himself, meets John’s eyes… and he’s the one overtaken by surprise.

Sherlock doesn’t need to tell him. Of course he doesn’t.

John knows. He can’t not know. Sherlock killed a man for him. The same way John killed for him their first night together. With the same gun. And that was only the last of so many clues Sherlock gave him since his return.

Sherlock doesn’t tell him. Instead, he makes a joke, a silly joke, so the last image he’ll have of John Watson is of him laughing, the last sound, that of his laughter. And he doesn’t seek a hug, no; not because they don’t do hugs, but because Sherlock would never be able to let go. He offers him his hand instead, stripped of his glove, so the last touch he’ll take with him will be skin to skin.

He doesn’t look back before stepping into the plane. He keeps his hand closed into a tight fist, keeping that last bit of warmth safe. Eastern Europe is cold at this time of year, he’ll need that warmth to live til summer, and maybe even beyond.

~

John can’t do this.

His eyes scan the field around them. He notes how far Mycroft’s man stands from them. Mary is close enough to get in his way. She said she would if it came to that. John told her not to; he can’t bear the idea of their little one getting hurt. But he can’t bear the thought of losing Sherlock, either.

How far could they go, if they ran? The car, then. The keys are in it. But then what?

Sherlock played dead for two years, but he had Mycroft on his side. John can hold his own in a fight, but he’s no spy – unlike just about everyone in his life, apparently, and he’s still trying to come to terms with that.

There’s no way out, is there?

John can’t do this. Not again. It almost killed him last time.

And it’s the same thing, isn’t it? Sherlock didn’t say it in so many words, but it’s right there, hanging between them. This is more than goodbye. This is Sherlock’s note. And this time there’ll be no magic trick to save him.

John closes his fists. He can’t do this. Not like this.

“John, there’s something… I should say. I meant to say, always, and I never have. Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again I might as well say it now.”

Sherlock sounds so serious that John makes himself meet his eyes, wondering if Sherlock will do what John can’t.

And he really can’t. He wishes he could, but he can’t. It’s too late. It wouldn’t mean anything to do this now, when Sherlock is leaving and won’t be back. Is that why Sherlock is ready to do it? Because he won’t have to deal with the consequences? Such a coward. And still braver than John.

Because John can’t do this.

But Sherlock doesn’t do it either.

Instead, he makes a joke, and John laughs, a true laugh even if his heart is breaking. A real laugh, like the one they shared that first night after that ridiculous run through London. Sherlock smiles now like he did then, like watching John laugh is the most wonderful thing. And this is better.

Better one last, ridiculous laugh than words neither of them needs. Better a single handshake than anything more, anything that would send John to his knees and break him to pieces. He wouldn’t want Sherlock to remember him broken.

He curls his hand tight when Sherlock lets go, trapping that last bit of warmth. God knows he’s going to need it.

John can’t do this, but he doesn’t have a choice, does he?


	3. Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during His Last Vow

At the moment Magnussen falls to the ground like a tree struck by lightning, the most ridiculous memory comes to the front of John’s mind.

The first night. That very first night when they ran around London together like a pair of lunatics, when John lost his stupid limp and found a mad flatmate. That first night, when John was still trying to figure out what the hell was Sherlock’s deal – not that he ever found a satisfactory answer – Sally Donovan said something to him, something he dismissed at once, something he thought of again on that bloody day at Bart’s, something that echoes in his mind now like funeral bells.

_One day we’ll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there._

And here they are, he and Sherlock, standing over a body.

John could have stopped him. When Sherlock reached into John’s pocket for his gun, John had a second to decide whether to stop him or not. He didn’t. He knew what would happen – it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes’ mind to figure that out – but he did nothing to stop Sherlock.

He could have done it himself. Should have, maybe; it’s his wife’s life, and by extension their child’s that Magnussen was threatening. God knows John was angry enough to do it. He might have, had they been alone, had Magnussen been dialing one of those phone numbers he was crowing about. But in the end, he didn’t. He didn’t kill Magnussen, but he didn’t stop Sherlock either.

 _Why would he do that?_ , he remembers asking Donovan, that night.

He has his answer now. When Sherlock tells him to get away from him so John will be out of the crossfire should one of Mycroft’s men shoot, when Sherlock tells him to give his love to Mary, to tell her she’s safe, John hears something very different.

He hears Sherlock’s speech at the wedding. Everything he said about John. The promise he made.

Here they are, he and Sherlock, standing over a body, because Sherlock would do anything for John, would give up anything for him, would live up to any unflattering epithet. And John isn’t sorry for what Sherlock did, nor is he sorry he didn’t try to stop him.

But he _is_ sorry for understanding too late.


	4. It's for a case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set between The Sign of Three and His Last Vow. Trigger warning - drugs.

It’s for a case.

Just for a case, nothing else.

Sherlock swallows hard, but his throat still feels too tight. He hasn’t been able to breathe properly since the wedding – since he said more than he ever wanted, even if no one heard what he truly meant. But that’s not why he’s here. Not at all. 

He’s here for a case. Nothing else. And certainly not because he didn’t get to dance with the one person he wanted to dance with. Besides, they danced, didn’t they? In their own home, to the sound of Sherlock’s violin, and Sherlock almost managed to forget he was standing in for someone else.

The needle gleams, catching a stray beam of sunlight. It’s rather dark in here; no lights, just boarded up windows that don’t completely stop the sun. Motes of dust swirl on a light breeze, like Sherlock’s thoughts swirl in his mind. He can’t remember the last time he had his mind entirely under control. These days, he’s constantly plagued by the nagging feeling that he’s missing something, that a deduction awaits, the clues waiting to be put together, the moment of revelation just one breath away. But it’s one breath Sherlock just don’t seem able to take.

Maybe this will help, he thinks, considering the syringe. It’s for a case, nothing more, but there’ll be side effects. A quiet mind is a beautiful thing. He remembers that well. He used to crave that peace, back when he was addicted. Not anymore, though. That’s not why he’s here. It’s just for a case.

His hand is shaking as he tries to press the tip of the needle in. Why is his hand shaking? Not from hesitation, certainly. He prepared the solution himself, he always did, and he’s never made a mistake. Not ever. Not even when things ended with bland hospital rooms and disappointed eyes. Even that wasn’t a mistake. And what he’s doing now isn’t a mistake either. It’s not a relapse. It’s not a cry for attention or anything as silly as that. It’s a conscious and willful decision. And it’s for the only purpose of a case.

Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath and steadies himself. When he opens them again, he slides the needle in and pushes the liquid into his vein. As he releases the tourniquet and lies down, clarity sweeps through him like the tide, seemingly gentle but overpowering.

Fear. Fear caused his hands to shake. Fear made him consider that syringe for close to an hour. Fear made him clings to his mantra that this is all for a case.

Fear of what will happen when John knows – and he’ll know, of course. The whole plan is for this to get in the papers, so John will know. The question is, what will he do, then? Will he call, or even come by? Will it be reason enough? They haven’t talked since the wedding. Or will he write Sherlock out of his life for good? He forgave two years’ worth of lying. Would he forgive this? Would he understand that it’s just for a case?

Would he understand that it’s for a lot more than that?


	5. Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during His Last Vow.

It hurts.

Oh, how it hurts.

Searing pain is pulsing through Sherlock. The haze of blissful morphine is no more than a memory by now.

He’s panting by the time he stumbles into the sitting room with his unwieldy load. He sets the chair down rather harder than he meant to. The sound is like a gunshot. Louder than the last gunshot Sherlock heard, actually.

He grips the back of the armchair with both hands for a moment, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, trying to get the pain back under control. Slipping two fingers under his coat, he checks… no. He hasn’t ripped his stitches. Good. 

It was only a month ago that he moved the chair to his bedroom. Because it hurt too much to see it there, empty. Because the thought of anyone coming into the flat and sitting in it – anyone who wasn’t John – was unbearable. Because it’s more comfortable (comforting) to sleep in than his bed, a familiar scent still lingering even after all this time. Janine sat in it, once. She learned not to do it again. It was one of the few times when Sherlock’s mask wavered, when it became too hard to pretend. It cost him two dozen roses to make up for that slip.

Opening his eyes again, he pushes the chair on the carpet back where it belongs, across from his. It’s a message, or at least part of it. The other part, Sherlock pulls from his pocket and places on the table he already set back in place. The glass clinks lightly against the wood. Sherlock’s fingers trail against the crescent moon, turning it just right so it’ll be fully visible to someone sitting in the chair.

It hurts. Oh, how it hurts to know he’s going to break John’s heart. It hurts so much that he can’t do it in person. He doesn’t want to be there when John starts to understand. But he needs to understand, needs to know. If Sherlock learned one thing through the whole business of ‘dying’ and coming back, it’s that John doesn’t take being lied to all that well. It’s a lesson Mary will learn soon. 

And oh, how it’s going to hurt…


	6. Dip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2nd chapter today  
> set during The Sign of Three

For the first few minutes, John feels like a right idiot. It doesn’t help that he keeps stepping on Sherlock’s toes.

“Stop looking at your feet,” Sherlock chides – again. “Head up. There you go. Just follow the music.”

He starts counting again under his breath, one, two, three, right along with the violin, and John still feels like an idiot, but little by little he starts to get the hang of it. By the time the waltz comes to an end, he’s the one who requests, “Again?”

Sherlock gives him a fleeting smile as he pulls away. One touch of his finger, and the song starts over. This time, Sherlock lets John take his hand, lets him actually lead in tight circles in the middle of the sitting room. With the furniture pushed to the side, there’s just enough space for them.

John fumbles a bit, but soon he finds the rhythm again and after a while he realizes he’s actually grinning. He can do this. He’s actually doing it. He hasn’t crushed Sherlock’s toes even once this time around.

“There’s one thing I still don’t understand,” he says quietly.

Sherlock’s eyes are half-closed, and John realizes he’s staring at him but can’t stop.

“Hmm?”

“Why did I have to wear my dinner jacket to learn how to dance?”

Sherlock lets out a quiet huff. “I told you. Because that’s what you’ll be wearing when you have your first dance as a married man. Tactile memory. It’ll help. Trust me.”

The request troubles John. Trust is a little hard to come by, these days, but right here, in the home they used to share, when it’s just the two of them, he finds it easier.

“All right,” he says as they go on. “But then, why are you wearing your dinner jacket, too?”

For a few seconds, Sherlock is silent. Finally he asks, his voice completely blank, “Would you have liked me better in a dress?”

John’s chuckle dies in his throat when it dawns on him that Sherlock is serious. He’s asking…

 _What_ is he asking?

“Two more measures,” Sherlock says before John can figure out an answer. “On the last one, dip me.”

“What? No, no, I can’t—”

“I trust you,” Sherlock says, no more than a whisper. “Trust me too. Now.”

It’s the most ridiculous thing John has ever done, and he’s half convinced he’s going to drop Sherlock, but he dips him, supports his weight, finds their balance. They remain like this as the music fades down to nothing, eyes locked, and all John can hear is his own heart, and that question again.

Would he have liked Sherlock better in a dress?

No, he admits to himself. He wouldn’t have liked Sherlock better in a dress, or as a woman, or as anything or anyone else.

He couldn’t have loved him more than he already does.

And that answer only brings up a dozen more questions – the first one being, should he tell him?


	7. Exposed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post Reichenbach / pre Empty Hearse  
> Written to accompany [this picture](http://prettyvk.tumblr.com/post/76464740055/they-push-sherlock-inside-without-so-much-as-a-hit).

They push Sherlock inside without so much as a hit or kick to his exposed body. The door closes behind him. The turn of a key. The clanking of two external locks. He’s not escaping that way. It takes him only a second to realize he’s not going to escape any other way either.

The room is bare; four smooth walls, no windows. If he could get at the fluorescent light fixture bathing the room in a cold glow he might be able to fashion some kind of weapon, but the ceiling is a good five feet beyond his outstretched arm, well out of reach. So is the camera in the corner opposite the door.

With nothing to do, he sits on the cement floor, curling a little on himself to keep warm despite his lack of clothing. He closes his eyes and reviews the events of the pass twelve hours, figuring out where he made a mistake – and, more importantly, where his captors did.

He’s going to get out of this. There is no doubt in his mind. They’ll open the door at some point, and he’s going to escape, and finish what he started, and go home. Go back to London, to his flat, to his violin, to tea brewed perfectly by a less than perfect man whose faults are so easy to ignore whenever he looks at Sherlock with that small smile.

It’s that smile Sherlock keeps in mind as he bows his head, pretending for whoever might look in that he’s on his way to being broken, when nothing could be further from the truth.


End file.
